


Of Bows and Rings (and Everything in Between)

by ConsultingWriter



Series: Tender Moments [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Letters, M/M, Soldier!John, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriter/pseuds/ConsultingWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John meet hours before John leaves on a bus for army training. They fall in love through letters but what happens when the base John is own is attacked?</p><p>I cry never gonna hold the hand of another guy. Too young for him they told her, waitin' for the love of the travelin' soldier. Our love will never end waitin' for the soldier to come back again, never more to be alone when the letter said a soldier's coming home.--Travelin' Soldier</p><p> </p><p>  <i>John smiled at the younger’s ambition and turned to tell him how amazing it was that he’d found his calling so early in life, when that damned purple bow caught his eye again. He couldn’t help it any longer.</i><br/>“I’m sorry, but what the hell is with that bow?”<br/>Sherlock huffed and brought up a hand to poke out the ribbon monstrosity. “It’s Grand-mére’s doing, she said that if I’m going to have my hair long like a girl’s I was going to wear it like a girl’s while I was living in her house and working in her café.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Bows and Rings (and Everything in Between)

**Author's Note:**

> New fic! Song is Travelin' Soldier by the Dixie Chicks.
> 
> Don't forget to review.

_Two days past eighteen,_

_He was waiting for the bus in his army green._

_Sat down in a booth at a cafe there—_

_Gave his order to a girl with a bow in her hair_

 

A blonde haired youth—a few days past eighteen, not quite a man but no longer a boy—sat on the bench, waiting patiently for the bus. His army green was hot, but he was proud to wear it all the same. He checked his watch, the bus wouldn’t be there for hours yet, but he couldn’t stand to be at home any longer with his mother’s sad eyes and his sister’s betrayed gaze.

With a sigh he stood and heaved his rucksack up with him. Glancing left then right for cars, the boy crossed the street and wandered into the café that was place conveniently across from the bus stop.

Settling down in a small booth in the corner, the teen picked up one of the two menus. He wasn’t hungry—didn’t have enough money to buy much even if he was—but he knew he couldn’t just loiter in the café. 

The rumble of a throat clearing pulled him away from the menu. In front of him stood a tall boy with a tiny scowl and tiny purple bow that tied up a small fluff of dark curls off to the side of his head. A note pad was clutched in the boy’s left hand, a pen clutched in his right, and the boy raised an eyebrow imperiously, impatiently, silently demanding the soldier’s order.

“Can I get a malt, vanilla, please?”

The dark haired boy hummed his assent and spun on his heel. The blonde’s arm shot out to grab his wrist, but stopped short of actually touching the other.

“I—” he started but stopped “Would you—”

He stopped again and let out a frustrated sound. How could he tell this stranger that he was so lonely, that he was so _afraid_ , and ask him to sit with him for just a bit?

A corner of the dark haired waiter’s mouth tilted up, it wasn’t a nice smile, “Just turned eighteen, signed up for the army before then, didn’t think you’d be shipped out quite so soon, you want to be a doctor but you can’t afford it so you thought this would be your best bet. You’re right, of course, no matter what you’re family says. The bus won’t be here for a least two more hours but you couldn’t stand to be at home any longer, possibly because your mother is already acting like she’s got to arrange your funeral, but most likely because your brother sees this as you running away from the problems in your family—the problems he created with his drinking—and now you’re sitting in an empty café, terribly lonely, and you’d like to know if I could sit with you for a bit.”

The blonde blinked and then grinned. “That was amazing.”

It was the waiter’s turn to blink. “You think so?” Thundercloud eyes searched the soldier’s for a hint of mockery or falsehood.

The blonde nodded enthusiastically, but smiled mischievously “Of course, you were wrong, just a bit.”

The waiter froze and narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t have a brother,” the shorter boy said breezily. “I do, however, have a sister.”

“Sister,” the boy spat, dropping his eyes to glare angrily at the ground. “Of course! I always get something wrong,” he stopped his miniature rant and pulled his eyes back up to stare at the blonde “But I got everything else right?”

The blonde nodded “Yeah, and it was terrific, how’d you know all that?”

“I didn’t know, I saw. I deduced it.” He started to say more but a woman’s voice calling from the back made him stop “I’ve got to go make your malt, but I get off in an hour, and I know a place that’ll be more exciting than sitting in a dull café.”

With that he turned on his heel, the blonde called “John! My name’s John Watson, in case you couldn’t deduce that too.”

“Sherlock,” the younger boy called back, not even turning to look over his shoulder as he flipped the hatch up to get behind the counter.

 

_So they went down and they sat on the pier,_

_He said I bet you got a boyfriend but I don't care;_

_I got no one to send a letter to._

_Would you mind if I sent one back here to you?_

 

The walked through the woods behind the café, close enough for their shoulders and arms to brush, and gathered samples of moss and dirt (for an experiment, Sherlock had explained to a bemused John) while talking about anything that came to mind: John’s plans for the future, Sherlock’s hatred for anything tedious, and especially his special brand of hatred for his boarding school and the empty-headed dullards that attended it with him, his experiments, and the reason he was even in ‘this forsaken, backwoods, intelligence-sucking, black hole of a town’—his recent overdose and subsequent stint in a rehabilitation center.

“You?” John had gaped in disbelief. “A junkie? Really?”

Sherlock had pursed his lips at that. “No one ever understands, not even Mycroft, the drugs are the only thing that can stop the thinking, the _boredom_ , or they were, for years they were the only thing, but I’ve found something else now, something more….rewarding.”

“Oh?” the blonde asked, curious as to what could be better to an addict then their drug of choice.

“Mmm, cases, John, specifically difficult ones, murders and mysterious too complicated for the police to solve.”

John chuckled; it made sense—in a weird, twisted way—that Sherlock would be drawn to such a morbid calling, John had spent less than thirty minutes in the younger boy’s company and he could already tell that he was a genius. “So you want to work for the Yard? Be a detective?”

Sherlock waved his hand “Oh nothing so plebeian, John, I would never work for New Scotland Yard, do you have any idea how droll that would be? No, I think I’ll be a consultant, pick the cases that interest me and tell them to bugger off on the rest.”

“A consultant?” John questioned, wondering exactly what that would entail.

“Yes, a Consulting Detective, the only one in the world. In fact, I’ll have created the job.”

John smiled at the younger’s ambition and turned to tell him how amazing it was that he’d found his calling so early in life, when that damned purple bow caught his eye again. He couldn’t help it any longer.

“I’m sorry, but what the hell is with that bow?”

Sherlock huffed and brought up a hand to poke out the ribbon monstrosity. “Its Grand-mére’s doing, she said that if I’m going to have my hair long like a girl’s I was going to wear it like a girl’s while I was living in her house and working in her café.”

John chuckled, Sherlock’s hair wasn’t particularly long at all—his untamed curls barely reached the lobes of his ears—but he supposed even **at** the length it was could scandalize someone from an older generation. The bow itself was tied in rabbit’s ears around a small tuft of curls. It set off center towards the left side of his head.

“I think it’s cute,” he commented with a mischievous wink. 

A light pink darkened the lily-white skin of Sherlock’s cheeks and a long fingered hand came up to tug at the bow self-consciously. “I know it might be hard for someone of your intelligence level, but please refrain from saying such idiotic things.”

It didn’t come out a sharp as intended and John wasn’t fazed at all. Instead he shot the other boy a small smile.

In an unconscious gesture, John brought his hands together and gently twisted the ring that sat on his right hand ring finger.

“A gift from your grandfather?” Sherlock asked, even though he already knew the answer.

John replied anyway, knowing that that wasn’t what Sherlock was actually wanted to know. “Yeah, it was his wedding ring, said it kept him safe in war, and it’d keep me safe too.”

The dark haired boy nodded. Usually he would scoff at such sentimentally, but he couldn’t this time, not when he knew how scared John was. Especially since the ring actually seemed to bring him comfort and confidence—normal people were so strange. Or perhaps it wasn’t normal people—because John certainly wasn’t something as terrible as normal—maybe it was just John who was so very, very strange.

As they neared the edge of the woods John stopped and turned to Sherlock “I know you probably have a girlfriend—” he started, only to be interrupted by a loud ‘wrong!’ “A boyfriend, then,” he tried once more, only to be cut off by a snort and an ‘oh-you-poor-little-thing-what’s-it-like-to-be-so-stupid?’ stare.

“Okay then, so there’s no one who would mind if I wrote you letters? I mean, if you don’t mind of course,” he back tracked, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand nervously “I just, I don’t really want to upset mum any more than she already is and I don’t have anyone else to send them to.”

“Letters?” was what came out of Sherlock’s mouth, too shocked to say anything else.

“Yeah, er, I prefer writing things out over typing them. I’m not really all that good with computers.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, trying to regain his metaphorical footing, before recovering with a careless hand wave and an easy, “Of course. I might not always have time to reply, but feel free to send them.”

John smiled. “Thank you.” He glanced at his watch and picked up his rucksack—which he’d left at the back door of the café after Sherlock assured him that it’d be safe—with a rueful look. “The bus will be here soon, I should go.”

Nodding, Sherlock quickly jotted the address of his grandmother’s house down, along with the address of his dorm room with the quick explanation of, “After August, you’ll want to send your letters here.”

John nodded and folded the paper, carefully tucking it into his wallet. He hitched his bag higher and started to turn when fingers caught his wrist in a tight hold. He cocked his head at Sherlock curiously.

With a visible swallow, Sherlock reached up and tugged the bow in his hair loose with the hand not holding onto John. Slowly, carefully, he tied the bow tightly around the wrist that he’d grasped and gave it a gentle stroke before dropping it.

“Be safe, John.”  

The blonde smiled at the other—who had averted his eyes in embarrassment—and pushed up on his tip-toes to plant a kiss on the other’s blush-heated cheek.

With deft fingers he reached around to the back of his own neck and untied the necklace that rested there. He pressed the black string and silver pendant into Sherlock’s hand and closed the long digits around it. He turned away with an, “I will, I promise.”

When the blonde had disappeared across the street and behind the bus that had just pulled up, Sherlock looked at the pendant that John had given him and touched it gently. It was a Caduceus—made of real silver—with the initials J.H.W. etched on the staff between the snakes coils. Sherlock pressed it to his chest, feeling an odd warmth radiating through his body, and tilted his head back to look at the stars that were starting to shine through the sun’s rays.

With slow but proficient motions, Sherlock tied the pendant around his neck, all the while wondering why he felt so sad over a man that he’d met less than half a day ago.

He thought of the disappointed look on his family’s faces and smirked. Having the pleasure of interacting with John Watson _and_ being able to annoy his family all at the same time? Marvelous.

_So the letters came from an army camp,_

_From California then Vietnam._

_And he told her of his heart—_

_It might be love—and all of the things he was so scared of._

 

The letters came, first from John’s training camp, and then from undisclosed locations, and Sherlock cherished each one, reading them over and over until the folds started to tear at the sides. They were kept in a box, filed away from oldest to newest and whenever the young brunette was feeling lonely—something that he would never admit out loud to being—he would tuck himself amongst his covers and read the letters from start to finish. They always made him feel better, and thinking of a smiling blonde with a purple ribbon tied around his wrist often reminded him that he’d have someone who would be disappointed in him whenever that certain itch came creeping up, the one where his fingers twitched and his mind longed for the artificial rush that cocaine could bring.

Unfortunately, John’s weren’t the only letters he received. Mycroft and Mummy—and on a much rarer occasion, Father—sent him letters quite frequently, harping on him to behave, to stay away from drugs, and to not be an all-around embarrassment to the Holmes Family Name.

One day at the beginning of spring, however, Mycroft’s letter was different, and it made Sherlock lean against his headboard with a frown.

_Sherlock,_

It read, and right away the brunette frowned, Mycroft always started his letters with ‘Little Brother’ or something equally annoying.

_It has come to my attention that you have recently been receiving letters not only at school, but that you have been receiving them for quite some time; since before you left Grand-Mére’s, if my source is to be believed._

_This must stop at once. I have looked into this ‘John Watson’ and he is much too old for you; and a soldier on top of that. He’s not even there, Sherlock, you should spend your time courting suitors that can open future prospects for you, not a soldier at war that might not ever make it home._

_Mycroft._

His first impulse was a vindictive satisfaction, he’d been writing John since he’d spent the summer at Grand-Mére’s alright, but Mycroft was obviously talking about last summer, not the one before that, when he’d actually met John.

The next emotion was fury. Sherlock folded the letter slowly and then with a vicious jerk ripped it in half. And then he pressed the two pieces together and then ripped them again. He repeated the process with an angry vigor until he was surrounded by the tiniest pieces of paper he could manage, chest heaving slightly in his rage.

How dare he? How dare his brother stick his nose in where it didn’t belong, only to tell Sherlock that John was too old for him—as if three years was an unusual age gap!—and that he should ‘court other suitors’ or some such nonsense, because John wasn’t likely to make it home anyway.

Like Sherlock cared! Even if John didn’t make it home, he would never see another.

He blew out a sharp breath through his nose and ruffled his hair in frustration at that thought. He was a Holmes! A genius! He didn’t feel things! Sentiment was a chemical defect that clouded judgment.

With that he picked up the other letter that he’d received—this one from John—and made to throw it in the trash, unopened and unread. He stopped, however, when the weight felt off. There was something inside.

He growled and tour the envelope open. Damn his curiosity! He flipped the envelope and shook it, forcing whatever was inside to tumble out. It was a ring. Sherlock blinked upon further inspection and held back a small gasp. It wasn’t just any ring, it was John’s ring. The ring his grandfather gave him.

With hands that were gentled by shock and a nearly crushing amount of warmth, Sherlock unfolded the letter.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Thank you for that last letter. Sometimes hearing from you is the only thing that makes getting up in the morning worth the effort. You keep me sane, I swear you **do** —in all your infinite sarcasm and childish tantrums (really Sherlock? Setting your brother’s umbrella on fire because he ate the chocolates your grandmother sent is a bit extreme). _

_I’m not sure how to say this, so I’ll just spit it out (thank goodness, yeah? I know how you hate it when people dance around the subject; waste precious puzzle solving time, right?). I’m being sent to another base—still can’t tell you where—and I won’t be able to write for a while. Things are getting a bit tense, but nothing has happened with the platoon I’m in yet, and I don’t imagine much will._

_I’m sure you’ve noticed the ring—I bet you realized as soon as you felt how heavy the envelope was—and I’m sending it to you as a promise. I love you. There, I said it. I wanted to tell you in person on my leave, but I thought maybe now would be an acceptable time as well. Anyway, the ring is a promise to you. When I get home for good—if you feel the same way I do—I’m going to make a man out of you, Sherlock Holmes, and then I’m going to make you an honest one. You can solve mysteries and I can be a doctor and together we’ll chase down criminals, just like they do in detective novels._

_I still promise,_

_John Watson_

Sherlock folded the letter and set it on his bedside table carefully before his knees gave out. He fell forward onto his bed gracelessly. He was nearly breathless. How could he have ever thought about throwing this letter—and what a precious, precious letter it was—away? Stupid. Stupid!

With a shaky hand he picked up the ring and caressed it gently. John, his John, loved him. Wanted to marry him. 

With a lump in his throat he slid the ring onto his left hand only to feel a pang of longing. John should’ve been there to put it on Sherlock’s ring finger himself. It didn’t matter, he told himself firmly, spinning the ring on his finger the way he’d once seen John do, it didn’t matter that John hadn’t put this ring on him, because John would be home eventually, and John would be there to put the more important ring on his finger; the one that would bind them together for the rest of their lives.

The thought of them chasing down criminals, of living life _together_ , was amazing and Sherlock couldn’t wait to get to it.

_One friday night at a football game,_

_The Lord's Prayer said and the Anthem sang_

_A man said folks would you bow your heads_

_For a list of local Vietnam dead?_

_Crying all alone under the stands_

_Was a piccolo player in the marching band,_

_And one name read and nobody really cared_

_But a pretty little girl with a bow in her hair_

 

Classes were always boring but History class was especially so, why did he care about things that had happened a hundred years ago? When would he ever need to know the name of the third Prime Minister? Or who discovered that the Earth went around the sun? Never. He would never need to know either of those things.

Sinking lower in his seat, Sherlock glared hatefully at the white board. He knew, reasonably, that this class wasn’t really that bad—the professor was almost competent and legitimately enjoyed the subject, as opposed to the rest of the ‘teaching faculty’ at the school, all of whom were only there to toady to the old money families who sent their sons to the school for a ‘proper education’—and that his bad mood was predominantly caused by the fact that it’d been two months since John had written.

Truth be told, the genius was getting antsy waiting for his beloved John to write, his brain was always spitting out the worst possible scenarios. What if John had been killed? What if he was lying in a hospital somewhere with a grievous wound, unable to reach him? What if he’d lost his memory of Sherlock? What if he’d found someone else, a strong military woman (or man, Sherlock supposed, but John had long ago confessed that he wasn’t one to appreciate the male physique) who would want to settle down and be a primary school teacher—or something similarly dull—and have a house and a dog, a woman who could bare John as many children as the man could stand to have?

The teacher walked in and stood at the front of the classroom with a grave look on his face.

“It came to my attention in one of my morning classes that most of you have absolutely no idea what goes on in the world outside your immediate viewing range,” the teacher started, flicking on the projector and pulling down the roll-up screen. “As most of you envision yourselves as world leaders or something equally as powerful, this thought frightens me. How can you lead a society that you have no knowledge of? How can you hope to be any kind of decent figurehead to this country when you don’t know her struggles or her loss? Simple answer, you can’t.”

Sherlock smirked; he knew there was another reason that he liked this man. On top of not being an arse-kisser like the rest of this school’s staff, he also had the capability to be interesting; if only for short moments every once in a while.

“This is a news broadcast of the most recent blow to our country, pay attention; you will be tested immediately after the segment is done.”

“Tonight we bring you news of a bombing that took place on a base in Afghanistan over the weekend…” the woman began and Sherlock sat up, attention wholly focused on the large screen at the front of the room.

He nearly sagged when he made it through the list of confirmed dead without seeing John’s name, and almost let his head fall back in relief when he wasn’t on the injured or ‘Missing in Action’ but as the last list of names scrolled through the title ‘Presumed Dead’ could be read in harsh bold letters at the top of the screen.

Sherlock gripped the metal bars of his chair tightly and watched it scroll through the V’s, breath held just as it had been throughout the scrolling of the lists before it.

When the name Watson, John H. scrolled slowly by Sherlock shot out of his chair and stumbled blindly towards the door, completely ignoring the professor who called after him.

Pushing the door to the toilets open, he kicked an open stall door in and dropped to his knees, bile rising rapidly in his throat. Acid burned his esophagus and he continued to heave, tears flooding his eyes and spilling over messily. No, no, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen! John was supposed to come home and then  they were supposed to be married! John was supposed to come home, Sherlock _needed_ him to come home!

His hand curled into a fist but relaxed when the metal of his ring tucked into the bend of his first knuckle. His ring. John’s ring. The memory hit him like a brick to the head.

 _“A gift from your grandfather?”_   _He had asked, already knowing that yes, it was a gift from the blonde’s grandfather._

 _John replied anyway, with a knowing smile that made Sherlock’s stomach quiver in an odd yet not uncomfortable manner._ _“Yeah, it was his wedding ring, said it kept him safe in war, and it’d keep me safe too.”_

Oh. Sherlock didn’t believe in that kind of thing—fate, luck, protection from items— but he let out a choked sob anyway as his stomach heaved again, forcing up nothing but acid; having already expunged any foodstuffs he’d eaten in the last few days. He gurgled, trying to force himself to stop but he couldn’t; he was no longer in control of his transport. 

With shaking hands he fumbled with his phone punching in the number he needed as fast as he could manage.

His brother answered on the first ring. “Ah, Sherlock.” His brother said blandly and Sherlock snarled, that fat bastard was going to try and waste his time with pleasantries?

“You will find John Watson.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a put upon sigh, as if even talking with Sherlock was too difficult to bear “I simply cannot just drop what I’m doing to find your little… friend.”

“You will find him, Mycroft,” Sherlock demanded coldly. “Or I will find every milligram of cocaine on this campus.”

His brother was silent on the other side of the line and Sherlock could practically hear the wheels in Mycroft head turning. Finally his brother responded, “I will find him, but there’s no guarantee that he’ll be alive when I do, Sherlock.”

Sherlock could almost hear the ‘I told you so’ in his brother voice and it made him want to rip his own eardrums out. Or better yet, rip his fat, nosy, pompous, brother’s vocal chords out.

“He’s alive.” Sherlock said firmly. John had to be alive. John promised him—in every letter—that he’d come home safe.

His soldier had to come home safe. He just had to. John had made him promises, and Sherlock didn’t know what he’d do if John broke them.

_I cry_

_Never gonna hold the hand of another guy_

_Too young for him they told her_

_Waitin' for the love of the travelin' soldier_

_Our love will never end_

_Waitin' for the soldier to come back again_

_Never more to be alone when the letter said_

_Soldier's coming home_

 

The weeks after that were terrible for Sherlock, and he very easily slotted them in the same category as his withdrawal period. The weather was beautiful and the beginning of summer was lulling back in the waves of spring with a peacefulness that Sherlock found beyond hateful. John could be dead, and the weather should reflect that possibility. Should reflect Sherlock’s own bitter agony.

He didn’t attend any of his classes nor did he leave his room. Food was brought to his door and left in the hallway. Very rarely did he eat any of it.

Days were spent screeching away at his violin and he spent his nights going over and over every letter John had written him. Sometimes he cried but more often than not he sat stone faced and angry at John, at the one’s who’d taken John, at Mycroft, at the world, at himself, at anyone and everyone. When he cried, however, he would curl in on himself and retreat to his Mind Palace; locking himself away in the room he had remodeled and redecorated just for John and would lose himself in the memory of their first, their only, meeting, all the while spinning the ring one his finger for comfort.

It was three A.M. when the text came and Sherlock jerked from his mind palace fast enough to give himself a migraine.

_Watson, John H. located. I’m sorry Sherlock—MH_

Sherlock swallowed but ground his teeth and pressed the ‘call’ button.

“What do you mean ‘I’m sorry’ Mycroft?” He was calm. He could be calm, for John.

“He’s alive, but barely, and his prognoses, it doesn’t look good Sherlock, there’s a very low chance of him ever coming out of his coma.”

“But he’s alive?” That was the only thing that he had heard and the echo of it was filling every room of his Mind Palace. His John was alive.

“Sherlock, did you not hear—”

He cut his brother off. “I don’t care, Mycroft. Send a car immediately, I want to see him.”

“I cannot just whisk you from school, little brother.”

“You can and you will, or I will find him myself, even if I have to travel to every hospital in this country.”

“You little ultimatums are not cute, Sherlock, and one day soon, you’re going to demand something and I will not bow to you just because you’ve tried to force my hand.”

“One day, I’m sure you will,” the brunette countered. “But today is not that day, and I’ll thank you to stop with your threats and send me a car. Please.” He tacked on. It was painful to do, but if it appeased his brother enough to hurry, he would do it.

“Half an hour,” his brother finally conceded and Sherlock hung up on him.

Half an hour, half an hour, what could he do to kill half an hour?

Glazing around the room, his eyes settle on a small jar of decaying grapes. The jar was sealed but the lid had a clear tube the let into a small petri dish filled with water. Ah yes, his wine experiment. He could work on that until the car was there. He should pack first though.

With that in mind he quickly threw three sets of trousers, four shirts, and two pairs of pants into a suitcase before turning his attention back to his experiment. It would keep his mind off John, at least for a bit.

_I cry_

_Never gonna hold the hand of another guy_

_Too young for him they told her_

_Waitin' for the love of the travelin' soldier_

_Our love will never end_

_Waitin' for the soldier to come back again_

_Never more to be alone when the letter said_

_Soldier's coming home_

 

John was motionless, so still that for a moment Sherlock thought that Mycroft had lied, that his lovely John wasn’t really alive. The steady beep of the machine convinced him otherwise.

He’d dragged the uncomfortable plastic chair as close to John’s bed as he could get it and climbed over the arm to sit curled in the chair with his legs tucked to his chest.

John’s shoulder was wrapped in bandages, as was his head. Mycroft had said something about John being shot, but Sherlock really hadn’t been listening that closely to the explanation, mind too focused on the fact that John had been found alive.

The door opened with a small creak, but Sherlock didn’t move from his position nor did he turn to look at the nurse who had come to change John’s IV drip.

“Oh,” the woman let out, clearly startled. “And who are you?” she asked, sounding almost suspicious. Although why was completely lost on Sherlock.

“I’m his fiancé.”

“Oh,” the nurse repeated, a note of something Sherlock couldn’t identify in her voice. “You’re a little young to be engaged aren’t you?”

Oh, jealousy—how tedious—perhaps she thought she could win herself a soldier? Be his angel of healing and then let him carry her off into the sunset (or whatever ridiculous notions romantics had)?

“Mm, some would say that, I suppose, but some would say nineteen was too young to be at war, wouldn’t you agree?” Before she could open her mouth, Sherlock straightened his slumped back and turned his head to look at her, possessiveness over John bubbling in the bit of his belly. “Of course, I’m sure others would say that nineteen is also a ‘little young’ to be preyed on by a thirty-year-old nurse with a burning need to be whisked off into the sunset  by her knight in shining armor, or in this case I suppose it would be a knight in desert fatigues, hm?”

The nurse looked like he’d slapped he’d slapped her and Sherlock felt oddly victorious even as she roughly strode to John’s IV and with jerky—but careful—motions, methodically changed out the bag.

“Goodbye,” he said as patronizingly as he could manage as she left.

Only when the door closed with a soft _click_ did Sherlock resettle in his chair, slumping back into his comfortable position.

He kept a steady vigilance over his soldier until the weeks of little to know sleep caught up with him and he slumped forward, head drooping to rest on the crisp white sheets and eyes drifting closed.

The pressure of something stroking his hair woke Sherlock up hours later.

Opening sleeping eyes he tilted his head to look at the hand. It was John. John, who was awake; Sherlock blinked and then shot up from his bent-at-the-waist, laying-face-down-on-the-bed position.

“John!” he exclaimed excitedly, reaching out to grasp the hand that had been petting his hair.

“Hey,” the blonde returned, lips curling into a soft smile.

“I thought….” Sherlock swallowed “I thought- when I saw the news, I thought you’d….” he trailed off, clutching the hand that cradled his tighter; he couldn’t even say the word ‘died’ to John, the horror of what he’d felt the entire time John had been missing was still too fresh.

John shushed him, and gave his a sad eyed look “I’m sorry, Sherly,” Sherlock’s nose wrinkled at the familiar nickname—John had addressed him as such in most of the letters he wrote since the beginning, citing the bow in his hair as his reason—but it smoothed out and his lips curled into a relieved smile when he realized that John was still around to call him by that ridiculous name.

“It’s okay, I’m just relieved that you’re okay,” and it was true. Sherlock wouldn’t trade John’s well-being for anything.

The sad-eyed look faded and John ran his thumb gently over the back of his beloved’s hand.

“What are you going to do now, John?” Sherlock whispered, feeling like the question was too intimate to be said too loudly, lest someone in the hallway outside the room overhear.

John shrugged his unwounded shoulder “I’m going to marry you, then get a job I suppose.”

Sherlock frowned. “No, you’re going to Uni. You deserve it.”

John shook his head. “I can’t be a doctor anymore, I don’t know what kind of degree I’d get other than that.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment. “Take your time then, go get the basics done, or you can join me in my detective work, you can be my big, strong, soldier, husband and protect me from the bad guys.”

His voice was teasing which made John rolled his eyes.

“We can’t both not go to college,” the blonde said and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He disagreed.

“Well, then you can go. They aren’t going to teach me anything I don’t already know or can’t learn on my own faster anyway, besides, wasn’t getting money for Uni the main reason you joined the army in the first place?”

“Well, yes,” John started. “but only so that I could become a trauma surgeon.” 

“Change of plans then,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. “It happens to the best of us, or,” he leaned in closer to murmur conspiratorially, “you could get a degree in forensics or become a medical examiner and you can help me when I consult with the Yard on murder cases.”

John chuckled and tightened his hand around Sherlock’s.

“That sounds nice, actually.” 

Sherlock smiled. John really was just absolutely perfect for him. “I knew it would.”

_Two days past eighteen_

_He was waiting for the bus in his army green……_

_Gave his order to a girl with a bow in her hair….._

_And he told her of his heart_

_It might be love and all of the things he was so scared of….._

_Never more to be alone when the letter said_

_A soldier's coming home._

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously guys, don't forget to reivew.


End file.
